“Sure I am,” he said. “I’ll tell you something I know about Colm, you tell me something you know.”
Shannon looked him over. He was serious, wasn’t he?
“Why not simply tell me what you know?” she asked.
“Wouldn’t be fair.”
What in the hell was this to him? A game?
Shannon ran her fingers over her hair. She didn’t have anything to lose. If she told Michael what she knew, it wasn’t like her brother would blab to anyone. He knew how to keep his mouth shut, if he knew how to do anything. Then again, she didn’t exactly have anything Earth-shattering on Colm.
“Okay,” she said. “But whatever I tell you stays with you.”
“I expect the same.”
“I can’t make that promise,” Shannon said. “If you know something specific and you tell me, I’m bound by my job to share it with the court, should things come to that.”
He flicked the cigarette. It shook off its own ash. “Okay.”
This would turn out to be a horrible idea.
“Fine,” she said. “You first.”
Michael put the cigarette to his mouth and drew deep, burning off a half-inch in one breath.
He exhaled. The smoke billowed out from his mouth, obscuring his face for a moment.
“When I told you I hadn’t talked to Colm, I lied,” he said. “He and I talked every day for the last six months.”
Shannon’s eyes widened. “When? I never saw you on the phone.”
“With as much as you work, that wasn’t hard to pull off.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because of what he and I talked about.”
Oh no. The color drained from her face. Bad idea after bad idea raced through her head. When they were all kids, Colm and Michael sometimes got into a self-destructive feedback loop together. One would dare the second to break a window. The second would do it and dare the first to steal a six-pack from a convenience store. It went on and on like that, before someone would usually back down, but not before a number of things had been stolen or broken into.
But they weren’t teenage delinquents anymore. They were men with terrible impulses. God only knows what ideas Colm put in his head these last few months.
“It isn’t what you might think,” Michael said. “Colm was a different person. Still an asshole, but different.”
“Then what was it?” she said.
He shook his head and puffed the cigarette. “I told you something, now you tell me something.”
“What do you want to know?” She’d already told him the investigation wasn’t going well. What else could she offer?
“I didn’t ask you that before I told you something,” Michael said.
Where to start? She wished she had her notes with her, but she’d left her work bag in her Jeep, which was currently parked in front of Colm’s house.
“I think Colm was an alcoholic,” she said. “There were empty bottles everywhere in his house.”
“I knew that.”
“Because you talked to him?”
“Sort of.”
“Can you give me a straight answer on anything?”
“Look, Shannon, there are things I want to tell you, and things I can tell you. There’s only a little overlap between the two.”
“And how much of it will help me figure out who killed Colm?”
He stepped on a june bug sojourning near a piece of gum on the sidewalk.
“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s why I need to know what you’ve found. I think we both have a couple pieces of the same puzzle, and no box to look at.”
Her brother was tight-lipped as ever, and maybe a little more cryptic—but she was desperate for information.
“We think Colm may have come into some money,” she said. “I’m looking at that as a possible motive.”
“What makes you say that?” Michael didn’t look surprised in the least. Then again, he never did.
“Something a neighbor told me tipped me off initially,” she said. “Based on that, Dedrick Halman and I had a warrant issued to search Colm’s house, but the only significant thing we found was an empty lockbox hidden in the wall.”
Michael pursed his lips. She recognized the expression. It was the same one he used when he looked over the menu at Murphy’s Bleachers—he had a decision to make.
“Tell me he wasn’t involved with Ewan’s business again,” she said.
“I don’t think he was,” Michael said. “His girlfriend, Isabella, is pregnant. He wanted to change his life around for her, and I know working for his dad, above anything else, went against that.”
“Am I right about the money?” Shannon asked.
“I don’t know. But it explains some things.”
“Like what?”
“He was worried about Isabella. She was on him about something,” Michael said. “A couple weeks ago, I think it stopped.”
“What gave you that impression?”
Michael tossed the cigarette into the street.
“He seemed happier, like he wasn’t worried about anything anymore.”
“And you don’t know why?”
“No,” Michael said. “He said it was better for me if I didn’t know.”
It didn’t take a genius to figure out the most-likely answer.
“The money,” she said. “That’s when he came into the money.”
“I know he didn’t get it from working with anyone in the family business,” Michael said.
“How can you be sure?”
Michael opened his mouth, then he hesitated.
“What is it?”
He went for the cigarette case in his pocket again. Shannon grabbed his wrist and held it there against his hip. She had it so tight, she felt every nervous twitch of his muscles as if they were her own.
“If you don’t tell me whatever it is you’re holding back, I may not be able to find out who’s responsible for what happened to Colm. I know you don’t want that.”
Michael’s eyes stopped on something inside the bar, just over her shoulder. He sighed and looked at her hand on his. Who knew what went through his head?
“He and I had been going to twelve-step together,” Michael said. “I was his sponsor.”
She let go of her brother.
“I know he didn’t go to work for Ewan. He told me the work Ewan gave him drove him to drink,” Michael said.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
He pulled out the cigarette case, opened it, and took out another.
“He told me all that in trust, Shannon,” he said. “Everything Colm said in the meetings, everything he said to me—I’m not supposed to let it out.”
She balled up her fist. She had to stop herself from yelling at him. She knew how seriously Michael treated his twelve-step program, and she was glad for it. Better that than have him sticking a needle in his arm. But this was a murder investigation for God’s sake.
“If you know anything else about Colm that you think has any bearing on this case, I need you to tell me,” she said. “Like you said, I need your puzzle pieces.”
“We traded stories about the things we’d do to get high, or in his case, get a drink.” Michael lit his cigarette. “We called each other when we had compulsions to do it again. We talked about strategies for staying sober and the things that made us use—that’s how I know he wasn’t involved with Ewan’s business.”
“If you saw the inside of his house, you might change your mind about that.” She looked over her shoulder at all the people drinking to Colm’s memory.
“Colm was only a few months into the program,” Michael said. “I’m sure he had setbacks—but I know his desire to recover was real.”
“If he had setbacks, I’m having a hard time believing he never worked for his father.”
Ewan stood at the corner of the bar, laughing and back-slapping with a couple other men—people Shannon didn’t recognize. His eyes brushed over her, then
returned to his scotch.
“So, what, you think Ewan got his own son killed?”
“Maybe,” Shannon said.
Her brother stamped out his cigarette.
“Hello, Michael,” someone said from their right.
Shannon turned and saw Elizabeth Keane—Ewan’s daughter, Colm’s sister, and Michael’s ex-fiancée—a few steps off.
Robbie Simmons stood next to her.
CHAPTER 13
“Elizabeth.” If Michael had a cigarette in his mouth, it would’ve burned a gash into his shirt as it fell out and slid down. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s my brother’s wake.” Elizabeth smiled at him. “Where else would I be?”
She was a true dark-haired, fair-skinned Irish woman. She was easily half a foot taller than Shannon, with a swan’s neck, a slender frame, and sea-green eyes. You’d be forgiven for thinking she was the descendant of Irish nobility.
“I’m sorry,” Michael said, “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Well, don’t leave because of me,” Elizabeth said. “You have as much right to be here as anyone.”
“No, I don’t,” he said. “It isn’t fair to you.”
“Please.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Stay.”
Michael never told Shannon how things ended with Elizabeth, but like nearly every other mystery in Shannon’s life, she had a theory—and his heroin addiction played a large part.
“Mr. Simmons,” Shannon said. “Good to see you here.”
“’S’up, detective.” Robbie bobbed his chin at her. “You working tonight?”
“Not specifically.”
Elizabeth looped her hand through the crook of Robbie’s arm.
“Shannon and Michael were friends of my brother’s,” Elizabeth said. “They all practically grew up together.”
“And they got you working his case?” Robbie said to Shannon. “Small world, ain’t it?”
“It is, and I’d be happy to tell you more, but there’s a wake we’re supposed to be at right now.” Shannon pulled the door to McCullough’s open before Robbie asked any more questions about her ties to Colm Keane.
The four of them entered together—Elizabeth and Robbie first, then Michael, and finally Shannon pulling up the rear.
The rest of the wake went by uneventfully. There were drinks, food, and plenty of stories about Colm shooting his mouth off at one person, or his temper catapulting him into a fight with another.
Over the course of the evening, Shannon drank more than she intended.
The night ended when Michael and Shannon walked back to Shannon’s Jeep with Robbie in tow. He kept trying to put his hand around Shannon’s waist, but even if he weren’t a character witness in Colm’s murder, she’d still bat him off just as hard as she did.
She thought he was done with it until they got up to the walk in front of his house. Michael broke off from them—he walked to Shannon’s Jeep to go use its electric lighter—and Robbie, perhaps knowing this was his last chance, made a move.
Before Shannon knew it, he’d spun her around so she was chest-to-chest with him. His arms squeezed her closer by the second, his breath reeked of cigarettes and cheap lager.
He smiled at her. His drunken eyes tried to keep their balance, but instead wandered all around her face.
“Stop it.” She was a little tilted herself.
“Come on,” he said. “Come on.”
“You’re with Elizabeth.” She lightly pushed at him, but that didn’t break his hold on her. “You two came together.”
Robbie grinned at her. “She ain’t here now.”
The way he pawed at Shannon made it seem like he assumed her attraction to him was a foregone conclusion. He was a good-looking guy, no doubt, but all through the evening, every joke he made fell flat with her, every story he told was about how cool he was and how everyone loved him. He was so full of himself, it shocked her that he didn’t split open.
“You know you want it.” Robbie put his hand on her butt.
That was all it took. She shoved him flat. Before she knew it, she heard his head smack into the grass like a hollow melon.
Shannon got herself ready for him to come back at her—he wouldn’t have been the first guy to try and get physical with her.
For a second, it looked like he was going to come after her. He sat up, tensed his mouth, balled his fists, then dry-heaved. He puked into his own lap.
“Oh my god!” She cackled at him.
Robbie flopped back into the grass, ready to pass out. She didn’t want him to die—at the very least she might need him for further questioning about Colm’s murder. So Shannon turned him on his side.
“You bitch,” he muttered with his eyes closed.
“You better watch your mouth. I’m within my bounds to arrest you for sexually harassing an officer.” She wasn’t. There was no such law she knew of.
But he didn’t have to know that.
Robbie groaned. He ripped up a handful of grass and tried to toss it at her. He threw it in the wrong direction.
“Nighty night.” Shannon patted him on his shaved head. One evening with Robbie Simmons would be enough to last her a lifetime.
She walked back to her Jeep, where Michael sat behind the wheel.
“Did you see that?” She pointed at Robbie passed out on the lawn.
“Yep.”
“All the more reason why I can’t wait to get the hell out of Chicago.”
Michael put the Jeep in gear and eased off the clutch.
“I’m proud you didn’t have a drink,” she said to him. She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. The Jeep swirled around her more than she wanted to let on.
“It’s not hard to turn down something you never cared for.”
Shannon opened her eyes and rolled down her window. She loved the feeling of the warm air on a summer night as she drove, and she wouldn’t miss a second of it.
“Did you notice Isabella never showed up?” Michael asked.
Shannon blinked for a minute, trying to clear her head. She hadn’t noticed.
“You’d think she’d be there,” he said.
“Maybe they weren’t what we thought.”
“No,” Michael said. “They were.”
CHAPTER 14
Michael stopped the Jeep in front of their building. After helping his sister trip into bed, and ensuring that Frank snuggled in next to her, the real work began.
He walked back out front of their apartment and got into his own car. Shannon wouldn’t mind his sneaking out at night—especially when he came back with information to jump-start her investigation.
Driving through Wrigleyville at this time of night was like diving head first into Chicago’s id. It was something Michael had to prepare himself to do at times.
There were pretty girls in tight skirts, low-cut blouses, and heels almost too high to handle all the drinks they had. Young men walked in packs, cruising from bar to bar, watching the girls stumble and cackle in embarrassment. When the time was right, the two sides would meet, and work their best game on each other.
Within a minute or two, Michael drove his way out of Wrigleyville. He went south on Lake Shore Drive, traveling parallel to Lake Michigan, past the docked pleasure craft, past the twinkling lights of barges on their way to (or from) Canadian ports, past all the nice condos overlooking it all.
When he finally pulled off of Lake Shore, he didn’t stray far.
There was a halfway house he knew—a place run by a fifty-something black lady who went by the name Miss Honey. He wasn’t sure if her real name was Rachel or Rochelle, but it didn’t matter—no one called her that.
Michael stopped his car out front. He checked himself in the mirror. He was fatter than he’d been three years ago, but still a far cry from overweight. His hair was neater, and his eyes had the life worked back in them. He set the parking brake and cut the engine.
If Miss Honey didn’t recognize him, that was just
as well. He was better off leaving this alone. Shannon might figure out a way to solve Colm’s murder, and if she didn’t, they’d be in Stockholm by this time next week. Running from everything wasn’t a bad option, just not one he wanted to take.
It wasn’t too late to start the car again and drive away. All he had to do was turn the key. It was already in the ignition.
He fiddled with his father’s cigarette case in his pocket. He eyed the brick apartment building across the street.
Colm was dead. There was no taking that back. Why should Michael risk exposing himself to the very thing that nearly ruined his life once before?
Because he had to.
He got out of the car. He locked it behind him and crossed into the worn-out courtyard of the brick apartment building he’d lived in during the darkest years of his life.
The building’s glass front door was unlocked. It always was.
A guy in baggy jeans and a snow-white t-shirt sat in a ripped-up pleather chair in the lobby. He glanced at Michael as he walked in, then immediately went back to texting someone on his phone.
Michael started up the staircase.
The place hadn’t changed at all since he’d been here last. The walls were still the same chocolate brown, the carpet was still that dark blue industrial stuff you’d find in the booking areas of police stations and in the back rooms of old public libraries.
When he arrived at the apartment building’s top floor—the sixth floor—he looked at the door at the end of the hall.
He made his way toward it.
Nothing in a place like this stayed clean. All the doors he passed were made of faux wood paneling. Every scratch and ding, every chip missing near the doors’ bottoms and sides had come from decades of hard living.
But not hers. It waited at the end of the hall, the same immaculate white it had always been.
Knowing Miss Honey, she probably had it repainted every weekend. She probably fleeced some new tenant into doing it. Come to think of it, didn’t Michael do it once?
He knocked on the door. No light shined from beneath it—not that he should expect anything else at three AM.
He knocked again. He didn’t pound or tap, just a firm knock. If she were there, she’d answer. It didn’t matter what time it was.
Chicago Blood: Detective Shannon Rourke Book 1 Page 9